


pulling on your heart to push my luck

by lapoesieestdanslarue



Category: Inception (2010), Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Crossover, Drunken Confessions, Fluff, Friends With Benefits, Light Angst, M/M, They Work it out eventually, all you need to know is that eames is in love with tommy as tommy is with him, to lovers !!, who even knows what this is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-14
Updated: 2018-01-14
Packaged: 2019-03-04 18:11:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13370310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lapoesieestdanslarue/pseuds/lapoesieestdanslarue
Summary: “Behold, Thomas Shelby, drinking and smoking and morose.” Eames slips into the chair opposite him, leaning across the table, downing the rest of the whiskey in one. Tommy watches, his eyes dark and hungry, practically predatory. “You know, I once heard someone say that you were too pretty to be sad, what would you say to that?”“I’d ask you to fuck me,” he says as he crushes the but of his cigarette into the ashtray. “That’s what I’d say to that.” He looks up at Eames and grins, and Eames looks back and grins-- the whole thing is practically intoxicating.





	pulling on your heart to push my luck

**Author's Note:**

  * For [apolliades](https://archiveofourown.org/users/apolliades/gifts).



> you know when your innocently watching 'inception' for the 100th time and you shoot off a text to [felix](http://archiveofourown.org/users/apolliades/pseuds/apolliades) about how Eames and Fischer are basically a modern day Tommy and Alfie? 
> 
> this is the 4.1k result of that

Really, Birmingham isn’t so bad. Once you’re not outside looking at it, it’s actually quite pleasant. The pubs are good, for one thing, and sometimes if you squint in the bright morning, you could almost trick yourself into thinking it was London. 

(“Birmingham?” Arthur had asked, admonished. “I know you have eccentric tastes but what the _fuck_ inspired you to go to Birmingham, of all places?”)

The answer is, is that Birmingham has _Tommy._

Small, delicate Tommy, who’s got a permanent scowl on his face and eyes so blue Eames hadn’t known a colour like it was possible. Tommy, who drinks whiskey like water and inhales smoke like air and tastes like an intoxicating mix of the two and wears shirts with too many buttons just to make it harder when Eames tries to rip it off him. Tommy who’ll grin like a maniac and then pull him out and kiss him, dirty and filthy and intoxicating and deep. 

“You didn’t say you were coming.” 

He can’t help it- he smiles around his pint. 

“I didn’t say I was coming to see you, either,” he counters, shooting the other man a sly grin. 

Tommy rolls his eyes- just like Eames knew he would- and sits down in front of him. “Don’t play big man,” he says, in that melodic voice of his-- And really, if you had asked Eames three years ago if he’d _ever_ be describing something as ‘melodic’ he’d have laughed in your face. Then he met Tommy Shelby, and he began to understand why people could spend hours staring at one painting or listening to one song on repeat. For the first time, he could fathom why people describe it as _falling_ in love- he’s been devoured by this man, consumed by him. 

But they’re not there yet. And they don’t say those thing to each other, they don’t really talk at all bar the perfunctory hellos and goodbyes and invites. So Eames will keep this to himself, and trick himself into thinking that this is enough for him. 

“What else would bring you to Birmingham? You hate it here.”

“I don’t hate it here,” Eames shoots back, inflecting offense into his voice. Because, really. If he doesn’t get to have even a little fun with Tommy, then what’s the point? “What on earth gave you that impression?” Around them people are standing up and leaving through the brass and wood doors, on to the next pub of the night as the Garrison slowly bleeds out. 

Tommy lights a cigarettes, unimpressed. “You called it a grey shit-hole.”

“Yes, in comparison to London. Don’t let your sensibilities get the better of you, darling, you’ll not go far in life.”

Not deigning to answer him, Tommy takes a long drag of his cigarette. Eames had never considered smoking to be a particularly aesthetically pleasing activity, but everything seems to become an art form when Tommy Shelby does it. 

They sit in silence while the pub empties out, a cigarette between Tommy’s elegant fingers and his totem in Eames’. 

Eventually, thank the heavens, the last customer leaves, stumbling through the doors, loud and messy and impossibly drunk. He’s young, probably a university student and Eames has to wonder if Tommy was ever that young, or if he just appeared one day, in a business suit and a bad mood. Probably the latter. 

“I’ll lock up, Jim,” Tommy says, his eyes never leaving Eames’.

Jim knows this particular dance by now, so he’s smart enough not to question it. He nods and throws his towel down on the counter, leaving out the back door. 

“You’re a barkeep now?” 

“You’re a businessman?” Tommy counters.

“Research, pet,” Eames grins. 

“Research,” Tommy considers, blowing smoke from between his teeth. “Always research.”

Eames leans back in his chair. “Do you want to know what it is I do?” he _tsks_ , because he really is a bit of a prick. “That sounds awfully like getting attached to me. And then _I’d_ have to find out what _you_ do-- Next thing you know, you’re down on one knee and I’m ringing my mother to tell her she’s finally getting to go to a destination wedding. I’m thinking Hawaii in August, but I don’t know if cotten will go with you skin tone. You’ve gotten paler, by the way.”

The other man grits his teeth, exhaling smoke from his nose. “You’re a bastard,” he says. He stubs his cigarette out in the ashtray, the last few tendrils of smoke extinguished. 

“Tell me something I don’t know, darling.”

“Are you going to fuck me tonight?”

“Mr. Shelby,” he smiles. “I thought you’d never ask.”

**X**

(It’s hot and heavy like it always is- Tommy and Eames and not enough time, never enough. But he’ll take what he’s given and bite hard at Tommy’s neck, marking him red and purple everywhere so that the whole world will now that for a few blissful hours, Tommy Shelby was Eames’ entirely. He fucks him hard they both come fast, and then Eames kisses every single part of the expanse that is Tommy, and pretends not to notice the blissed out smile on his face, because that will only trick Eames into thinking this is more than it is. 

Then they share a cigarette-- a bit of a tradition that Eames has grown impossibly fond of and can’t bring himself to reenact with any other people who come to share his bed. It would feel cheap, only a whisper of the real thing. It would be sacrilege, because this is sacred, this is them. 

They fall asleep, and early in the morning when Eames wakes he’ll pretend that he didn’t wake up to their two bodies intertwined. So he’ll disentangle himself and ignore the dull, empty ache in his chest and get dressed. 

Except this time, something in the routine changes. This time, Tommy stops him before he reaches the door. Pushing himself onto his elbows, with his hair looking like a bird’s nest (courtesy of Eames) and eyes still half-hooded with sleep, but still alert enough for Eames to know what he asks him next isn’t a mistake. “When will I see you again?”

He falters. They don’t really… do this. Their communication had always been by mutual proximity- either London or Birmingham, that was the lay of their land. Nevertheless, there’s a pretty boy asking to see Eames again and he’s never been one to look a gift horse in the mouth. Grabbing a pen off the bedside locker, he grabs Tommy’s palm and scribbles his number down. 

“You tell me, pet,” he says, kissing Tommy one last time.)

 

**X**

**_You have [1] missed call from +42487653911 left at 10:52pm, 29/01/18_ **

Eames hits the call back button without missing a beat, and the line picks up two rings in. 

“You didn’t even leave me a voicemail? I’m hurt. They’re considered modern day love letters, you know, and the fact that you didn’t even-”

“You still called back, though. Clearly not that bad of an offense if I’ve been forgiven so easily.” Oh, that voice. Even through a shitty phone connection it makes Eames’ insides melt to goo. 

“Well yes,” he huffs, catching his reflection in the window of the tube carriage he’s on and nearly dropping dead when he sees the hint of a blush on his cheeks. “But only because you’re so pretty.”

“Too kind to me,” Tommy drawls, and Eames doesn’t even care anymore-- he laughs. He laughs because he’s on the phone to Tommy like some kind of lovesick teenager, and the sheer relief of actually _getting_ the call in the first place is enough to make him giddy. 

“Did you miss me?” he asks, because he has very little impulse control and Tommy always gets him a little reckless. 

“Never.” It’s said in a heartbeat, and Eames doesn’t bother to challenge him on it. He doesn’t know what he expected, really, from Tommy. It’s not like they’d ever promised themselves to each other. “Where are you?”

“London,” Eames replies.

“Research?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” 

He can hear a huff of a laugh on the other line, and tries not to notice the way his heart heart flip-flops in his chest. “If you must know, it’s more of a quick bit of respite before a job.”

“You seem confident.”

Eames shrugs. “I’m not confident just familiar. I’ve done thousands like it. Not much to be done.”

“Hopefully London won’t fall in your absence.”

“I wouldn't hold your breath, love. My romanesque features are the only thing keeps the order of things right, you know.”

Tommy hums on the other end, and Eames knows he’s smiling.

“I think you’re lying, by the way.”

“Lying about what?”

“About missing me.”

Suddenly, it goes very still between them, with only the sound of their breaths crackling through the speakers. “Goodnight, Mr. Eames. Come back in one piece.” And then Tommy’s gone, and Eames is left listening to his own silence echoing back to him.

**X**

It all goes tits-up after that. With Cobb being more narcotic than usual (which is saying something) and Arthur being _Arthur_ and generally carrying around the knowledge that he’s made an absolute mess of things with Tommy because he couldn’t keep his stupid mouth shut, Eames has been better. Throw in the multiple issues just now arising with the job and you’ve got yourself a bloody tea party. 

Sighing, Eames scrubs at his eyes, not wanting to go to sleep just yet because he knows exactly what cocky bastard will fill his dreams and make the night more painful than they need to be. Absentmindedly he picks up his phone, ready to mindlessly scroll through facebook until his eyes become too heavy, when he sees a missed call. 

_**Voicemail left at 7:05pm, 12/2/18** _

**__** _Do you always talk out of your arse?_

(Eames’ heart stops. In that moment, he flatlines, because that’s Tommy. It’s Tommy, and his whiskey and smoke and velvet words.)

_I checked what you said, and a voicemail isn’t the modern love letter, it’s a text, so get your facts straight before you spew your drivel. Eames- I don’t even know your fucking first name, does that seem a bit perverse to you?_

_But- I just. You were right. When you said that I was lying._

_I was._

_I’ll, uh- I’ll be in Small Heath for the next month, so if you finish up before then just… Give us a call or something, yeah?_

_**End of message. To return this call, please press 1. To listen to other voice-** _

Eames hangs up, his heart thumping with a dull ache and his head spinning with the fact that halfway across the world there’s someone missing him.

**X**

Eames never actually thought he’d feel something akin to relief upon arriving in Birmingham. Nonetheless, here he is, still shaking off the remnants of the mark he’d been forging, walking into Arthur Shelby’s pub in a filthy street- and all he can feel is a deranged kind of happiness.

There, in the dim light, with a half-drunk tumblr of whisky and the stub of a cigarette, is Tommy. Opposite him, is an empty chair and an equally empty glass, both untouched.

“Behold, Thomas Shelby, drinking and smoking and morose.” Eames slips into the chair opposite him, leaning across the table, downing the rest of the whiskey in one. Tommy watches, his eyes dark and hungry, practically predatory. “We have to stop meeting like this. You know, I once heard someone say that you were too pretty to be sad, what would you say to that?”

“I’d ask you to fuck me,” he says as he crushes the but of his cigarette into the ashtray. “That’s what I’d say to that.” He looks up at Eames and grins, and Eames looks back and grins-- the whole thing is practically intoxicating. 

“But first,” Tommy says, pouring another drink. “I’d ask you if you’d know anything about some kind of… subconscious espionage that went on in Russia a few weeks ago. Brought down a few of our competitors, if you must know. The mafia is a messy thing.”

Eames slugs down the whiskey. “So I’ve heard.”

“A suicide mission, they said.”

“And yet, you’re happy because you’ve got those pesky Russians out of the way. Because I also happened to hear through the grapevine something about the Shelby’s going into real estate, which would have been awkward with Petrovna’s in the way, wouldn’t it? What with that little monopoly they have going on. But man is a giddy thing, and quick to dance on graves.”

Tommy’s smile turns sharp, and Eames can’t help but feel like this is something they’re never going to come back from. “Better to dig a man’s grave than to put him in it.” 

“You’re equating the digger and the dancer now, love.” 

 

**X**

(This time is different. This time is slow and languid and it’s Tommy folding in on Eames, their bodies molding together and not so much a heat this time as a warmth instead, overpowering and all encompassing. It’s so good Eames could cry. 

It’s when Tommy asks him not to leave so early in the morning midway through their second cigarette that Eames knows without a doubt, he’s gone for good now. Tommy Shelby has ruined him for the rest of the world. Eames is Tommy’s and Tommy’s entirely-- he’s never, ever coming back from this, and he doesn’t really want to.)

**X**

It continues on in this vein for a few months. Eames is fairly certain that if this were a conventional relationship they’d probably be celebrating some kind of anniversary sometime soon. But it’s not a conventional relationship by any means- God forbid they do something _normally_ , and so they don’t ever mention it. They haven’t even determined their relationship status, and Eames gave up the ghost of trying to understand Tommy’s approach to this long ago. 

(The closet they’ve got is Eames whispering “God given,” along Tommy’s collarbones, clutching his hips. “God gave you to _me.”)_

That’s what they are, it’s what they have and Eames is happy as a clam. He’s fairly certain Tommy is too. 

**X**

Tommy is not, by any means, affectionate. Eames has learned this from months of experience- he’s become accustomed to the familiar dance of having to pry Tommy out from the barricade he puts up around himself. 

And it’s perfect. It suits them both- Tommy likes to be chased, Eames loves the thrill of it. He likes it especially when Tommy wants it, almost inviting Eames to try. He’ll never say out loud but Eames can see it-- in the way Tommy hides a smile in the collar of coat, ducking his head down so he thinks Eames can’t see it. In the way he turns himself into Eames’ hold, the way his lips ghost over the shell of Eames’ ear, could almost be a kiss if you squinted.

So when Eames is strolling out of the kitchen on a Friday evening, having not seen Tommy for the week because recon Dom had needed him for in New York, looking forward to a particularly nice shag, just going about his business, he’s completely caught off guard when Tommy’s hand darts out from his seat on the couch, wrapping around Eames’ waist and pulling him close. Suddenly Tommy, like he’s only had glimpses of before, is pressing his lips hard against Eames’ hipbone, his body collapsing under the shaky breath that rattles him. 

This is uncharted territory, this doesn’t happen, Tommy doesn’t _do this_ to Eames. The earth has shifted, the apocalypse is coming or everything is going to start crumbling around them and Tommy is just taking this time to say thanks for the fucks before the world ends. 

Or maybe the weight Tommy carries around with him is weighing heavier than usual today. And maybe they’ve both been lying to themselves for quite a while about how much they mean to each other. And maybe- just maybe- he’s relieved Eames did actually return home in one piece, as promised.

So despite his shock, despite it all, Eames leans into it, cradling Tommy’s face in one hand and with the other running it through his hair. 

“Alright, pet?”

Tommy grunts some kind of answer, not moving from his spot. 

Eames bends down and presses a kiss to the crown of his head. “How about we skip the sex tonight and I make you a cuppa and we go to bed. Hmm?”

Tommy sags against him, all the tension dissipated, and Eames takes that as all the answer he needs. 

**X**

Truths come out that night, things neither men ever though they’d share with what was supposed to be a one-and-done lay, but here they are, lying between the sheets of Tommy’s bed, slowly unravelling the mystery.

Funnily enough, Eames is still just as infatuated. 

**X**

The next week Eames is in London, waiting on a call for a job offer and tidying up loose ends. It’s ten o’clock on a Saturday evening and he’s finishing off the last of a six-pack of beer and watching _Take Out_ when there’s a pounding on the door. Genuine, god-almighty _battering_ on the door. 

When he opens it, it’s Tommy. 

Tommy, leaning against the door frame, soaked to the skin and looking about as menacing as a drowned rat. 

“You messed with my business.” And evidently, very drunk, if the slurring is anything to go by. “Why the _fuck_ did you mess with _my_ business? We never agreed to that. We never said that we could do that!”

“We never _said_ anything because unless I’ve missed something, we’ve never actually talked about what _this-”_ he gestures between the two of them, “is. Now get the fuck inside.” He grabs him by the collar, until he’s got the door shut behind them and Tommy standing in the hallway. 

“You don’t get to mess with my business,” Tommy seethes.

“You were shitting a brick over it, I could help-- Did you want me to do nothing?” Eames snaps back. “You could have said ‘thank you’.”

“No!” Tommy roars. “That’s not what this _is!_ It’s not what we do. You can’t just-” His breathing is coming fast, hand clutched to his chest. 

Eames takes a small step forward. “Tommy, love, calm down.”

“ _No,_ no, because- You can’t-”

“I’m sorry I overstepped,” Eames says, and tries not to feel like utter death as he does. “I’m sorry, okay? I won’t do it again.”

“You can’t just do _that._ You can’t just risk your fucking life for me because- because-” Eames had never seen Tommy like this, completely unravelled, utterly vulnerable. “Because I love you so much and I would burn the fucking world down for you and can’t just do _this_ and give me false hope.”

It seems bizarre to Eames that only five minutes ago he was alone on his couch, and now Tommy’s here telling him he loves him, and that he’d burn the world down for him. If he could, if Tommy weren’t so distraught, he’d want to pause the moment and listen back the words over and over again. _I love you i love you i love you i love_ you. 

“I love you, but I’ve done things, Eames. _Fuck,_ I- I’ve done horrible things you can’t imagine and people are going to be after you for your whole life because of me and sometimes I still feel like a monster even in my own skin and you deserve so much better. I’m broken- My heart, it’s broken, I’ve never been able to hold something I loved without breaking it and I don’t want to break you, Eames. I’m sorry for loving you because you’re too good for a broken man like me. But I can’t help loving you. I tried so hard to stop but you always _knew._ You said so yourself when you knew I was lying. I've always loved you, and I promise you I always will even when I don’t love myself.”

Oh, his Tommy. His beautiful, broken boy that Eames loves with his whole heart, that Eames could never _stop_ loving, not if every force in the universe tried to pull them apart. Even six feet in grave, he’d find his way to Tommy.

“Tommy, Tommy, _Tommy._ ” He shuffles into the other man’s space, voice low and soothing as he cradles his face in his hands. “It’s okay, darling. I love you too. Tommy, _listen_ to me- I love you too. Nothing is ever going to make me stop loving you. I’ve been head over heels since the moment you told me to get my Chav arse out of Birmingham and back to London.”

Tommy clutches his shirt, burying his face in his neck, and without thinking Eames pulls him closer, wrapping his arms around Tommy’s slight frame.

“I’ve done awful things,” he whispers into the crook of Eames’ neck. “I should be dead for what I’ve done. I’m going to hell for it. You’re going to hate me for it.”

“Never. Tommy, _never._ I don’t care, okay? I don’t care what you’ve done because I’ve probably done twice as bad.” He pulls back, so that Tommy’s looking up at him. “And when you can’t love yourself, I’ll love you enough to get you by. I promise you that. It doesn’t matter what they say, it doesn’t matter about God- You’re my truth. You are. Not anything else.”

Closing his eyes, Tommy rests his head against Eames’s collarbone, exhausted. “Don’t leave this time,” he says, his grip tightening around Eames’ waist. “Don’t ever leave.”

Pressing a kiss to his temple, Eames promises “I won’t.”

**X**

The next morning, Eames drags Tommy out of bed with a promise of breakfast and coffee. It’s when they’re waiting in line at the Pret A Manger on the cold February morning that Eames decides to say, “I’m pretty sure you’re it for me,” with a feigned casualness, like he’s decided to go for cappuccino over his usual latte, and when he looks over he can see Tommy’s brain simply … stop. “What did you just say?” Tommy replies, all Birmingham and gruff. 

“You’re the one for me,” Eames repeats, and Christ, he can feel cheeks heating up. “As in, I don’t really want to be with anyone else. Ever. And if you were so inclined, I might even give you a ring for your troubles.” Keeping his eyes firmly turned toward the specials board, Eames continues. “I just reckon after last night we should start, y’know…. Communicating. And, well. You’re – I want to spend the rest of my life with you. I think I’m right in thinking that the feeling’s mutual, but I just wanted to clarify. In case you were wondering.” For once, in his whole year a bit of knowing him, Tommy seems to be speechless. He’s just looking at Eames, like he’s suddenly sprouted a third head. 

After fifteen seconds of complete silence, Eames finally turns to look at him, “Pet,” he says, fond and exasperated but really getting a bit anxious, “you’re going to have to say something.” “I –” Tommy tries and pauses, coughs again and blinks furiously. Tommy looks so perfect, even standing with his mouth opening and closing like a guppy fish, but it’s so endearing Eames can barely breath. He’s never had anything this perfect and vulnerable, he’s constantly terrified of accidentally breaking Tommy, and Tommy seems to have that seem fear for him. But Eames thinks they’ll be okay. They can weather a few knocks and bumps together. “Yeah,” Tommy says, and if his voice is rough and eyes are a bit watery, he doesn’t seem to care too much. “Yeah, all right,” he says. Eames smiles, relieved, and laces his fingers with Tommy’s before turning back around and pretending to continue reading the specials board. Then, very lightly, Tommy is tugging at Eames’s hand. “I wouldn’t mind a ring,” he says quietly, like he can’t believe he’s giving away some kind of secret. “If you wanted.”

Oh, does Eames want. He’s terrified to realise that his eyes are beginning to get a bit wet as well. He lets out a happy laugh, and he knows that he must be smiling like a maniac, but words are failing him. Ducking down, he presses a kiss to Tommy’s lips- and for the first time, the other man returns in kind. 

When he looks up, he catches a glimpse of the two of them in the café window. Tommy, tucked into Eames side, their hands intertwined by their side- Tommy looking serene in the eleven o’clock night, and if you knew him well enough you’d see the hint of a smile that plays on his lips. Eames, towering above him with a grin fit for a jack-o-lantern.

Love looks good on them, he thinks. 


End file.
